


Purple

by YamiHeart



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 14:55:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4610937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YamiHeart/pseuds/YamiHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The late night musings of a poet can be romantic....but not when you're just trying to get some sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purple

“Mathieu,  _mon cher,_ can you name something that is purple?”

When one is married to a poet, these questions at one in the morning are disorienting for only the first two months. By the second year there is no fighting the random musings anymore because a night without them feels almost empty with silence.

“…Purple?”

“ _Oui._ ”

“Um… Eggplants? They’re pretty purple, right?”

Mathieu didn’t even have to open his eyes to know he was getting glared at by Francois. His first few answers never seemed to please the Frenchman.

“Where is the romance in an eggplant?”

“You never said it had to be romantic. Just purple.”

“But can you not  _assume_ ,” The bed creaked as Francois shifted into an indignant upward facing dog. “Can you not assume that I need it to be romantic? When have I ever needed it to be something else?”

Mathieu knew better than to keep his back to his husband once he was in indignant upward facing dog, so with a soft sigh he rolled over and cracked his eyes open. As usual, Francois’ bedside light was on for late-night inspiration hits like this one.

“How ‘bout lavender?”

“Clichéd.”

“Sunsets?”

“Overdone.”

“…Wine? Sometimes? I think?”

“Maaaaaaathieuuuuuuu,” Francois whined as his arms slowly slid forward until his face was smooshed into his pillow.

“I don’t know, Francois! There aren’t a lot of romantic, non-clichéd purple things! Can’t you try asking me again after I’ve had some breakfast in a few hours?”

Francois shook his head without ever fully removing his face from the pillow. “No,” was the muffled reply. “My muse for the poem will be lost by then!”

Anyone who thought marriage to a poet was nothing but bon-bon eating picnics in the countryside had, in Mathieu’s opinion, never lived with a true poet. Sure, there were numerous perks (such as being informed of no less than one hundred poetic perfections in your pinky finger), but poets, as it turns out, are human beings, and human beings have flaws. Francois’ flaws somehow always walked the precarious line between endearing and frustrating.

“Okay, okay…how about…?” Mathieu closed his eyes and sighed. “The color of the snow-covered tundra as the sun rises for the first time after months of darkness… or something?”

Again the bed creaked under Francois’ shifting weight, but this time Mathieu received a loving smooch on the lips.

“Oh,  _mon amour,_ that is the absolute perfect description for the color of your eyes!”

“…What?”

“I do not think I could have put it better! Oh, you are sounding more and more like a poet every day!”

The sound of pencil on paper filled the silence left by the lack of answer Mathieu received to his question. He thought about asking again, but there wasn’t much point since there was no doubt that in the morning he was going to hear a thousand versions of whatever poem Francois had started.

“Glad I could help. Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Yes, yes, of course.  _Merci,_ Mathieu.”

 “Don’t stay up too late, Francois…” mumbled Mathieu as he pulled some of Francois’ covers onto himself and got comfortable. 

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

But he did, and there was a very sleepy poet the next morning that Mathieu had little sympathy for. 


End file.
